


Suptober Day 6: Mask

by tiamatv



Series: Stripes [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Baker Dean Winchester, Fluff, Knitter Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Quarantine, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26871973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: It’s when Castiel’s knitting that he notices his soulbond stripes the most.(A fluffy little timestamp for Stripes and Stitches)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Stripes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808167
Comments: 51
Kudos: 345





	Suptober Day 6: Mask

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, here I am last-minute sprint writing my Promptober challenges. I really should not make this a habit! Completely unbetaed and not even re-read. Again, I might clean this up at some point.
> 
> I know, I cheated. This is a timestamp for Stripes and Stitches. I don't think the world will make very much sense if you haven't read that one, but you probably don't have to have read Stripes and Sweets.

After it happens, it doesn’t seem possible. It doesn’t seem _real_.

Castiel traces the dark red soulbands encircling both of his wrists with the tips of his fingers before he shakes himself free of the startlement of them and goes back to his mosaic knitting. Hael loses storebought scarves like a washing machine eats socks (Castiel doesn’t let the washing machine have anything that he’s handknit) but even _she_ knows better than to misplace something that her older brother’s handmade for her.

Hael is reckless, but not even she’s that rude.

A lot of the time, Castiel forgets his stripes are there, truthfully, even though it’s only been a few weeks. He can’t feel them, so he forgets how they’re etched into his skin; he forgets what they can mean when they’re out of sight, since otherwise, it doesn’t seem like much about his day-to-day has changed. His heart still twists and pops in a way that’s almost painful when his phone rings in the evening, and it’s Dean. He can’t believe it when Dean murmurs, “Heya, Cas, how was your day?” because it sounds so natural.

It’s when Castiel’s knitting that he notices his stripes the most, because he pushes his sleeves up to the elbows.

And then he always stares, his breath catching, because they’re lurid, vivid. They’re lovely in a way that Castiel isn’t really used to thinking about a part of himself.

He’s dropped stitches because of it. Had to tink back a whole row, once, because he knit it in stockinette, completely forgetting that it was supposed to be patterned, not plain knitting—his eyes stuck on his wrists, because it’s been many years since he needed to look at his needles.

Fortunately, only the succulents on his windowsill were around to judge him as he muttered his way through pulling back the stitches. Nonetheless, Castiel felt judged. He hates having to unknit things in the first place.

It’s not polite to stare at someone’s soulbond marks, of course not. It’s not _quite_ as impolite as staring at someone’s cleavage. But, Castiel imagines, how bad can it be to stare at his own? Especially since he truly, honestly never thought he would have any?

(Well. Considering he stares at his stripes in the shower, too, he probably shouldn’t answer that.)

He jumps at the ring of his phone in the living room, frowning. There are a grand total of _zero_ people he would be expecting to call at this time, which was why he had settled himself very comfortably into his knitting chair, cross-legged—the bright pink yarn next to one knee, wrapped in its yarn sock in a center-pull ball, the black with speckles of red wedged next to his opposite thigh. He does that specifically so the two colors don’t get tangled together, so at least he’s not trying to extricate himself from a web of yarn as well as his knitting and his recliner.

But he’s still grouchy by the time he makes it to the coffee table, where his phone is still sitting on the little holder he keeps it on when he’s working. The ringing stopped on his way there, but it’s restarted again now. Castiel’s eyebrows jump when he sees who’s calling.

“Hello—”

He doesn’t even manage to get the greeting the rest of the way out before he hears cackling on the other end, loud enough that Castiel winces and holds the phone away from his ear. There’s a voice in the background—female, that must be Jess—and she and Sam are overlapping, talking over each other.

“Oh my _Gooood_ —"

“—TV, Cas!”

He frowns, sits down on his sofa, and presses his cellphone back to his ear. “What?” he demands.

“Channel six! Turn on the TV, and then hang up, okay? You’re gonna wanna see this.” It’s hard to understand Sam when he’s laughing so hard, the words hiccupping between chuckles, but Dean’s younger brother is a friend of Castiel’s, too.

(Castiel hasn’t gotten to the point yet where he can think of Sam as his brother-in-soul. Even though he realizes, abstractly, that Sam _is_.)

They _have_ done some co-watching through quarantine—all four of them putting something on the TV, phones on speakerphone, since by consensus none of them like looking at things on their computers. Those things are normally scheduled in advance, though—

Castiel almost drops his phone when he turns on the TV.

“—May Gallardo with Channel Six with our segment on local businesses during quarantine; I’m here with Dean Winchester, one of the co-owners of Dangerously Delicious on Mass Ave—” A short, pretty woman with a sharp and fashionable bob, mouth moving under her plain black mask, stands the appropriate quarantine distance from Dean.

Behind them, Castiel recognizes the clear glass countertops of Dangerously Delicious, Dean’s and Sam’s beloved bakery. They don’t fill the display cases anymore, because of quarantine restrictions, but Dean and Sam still keep them shined. The glass is clean. Dean’s taken to putting just slightly risqué slogans on the front of them, instead, in cutout colored paper.

(Dean claims that both he _and_ Sam decide what’s going to go on them. Castiel is very sure that he’s lying, and told him so.)

It’s a good thing Castiel’s already sitting down when Dean starts to talk. “Thanks, May. Yeah, y’know, obviously quarantine’s been tough for everyone! But I gotta say, cookies? I feel like I make as many cookies in a week as I used to in a month—”

His deep voice sounds different on recording, on TV—not as resonant, and the audio doesn’t catch his near-constant undertone of laughter. Or maybe that’s just how he talks to Castiel?

Castiel knows Dean… affects him. Of course.

That’s not the same as looking at how the camera loves him, though.

“—I’ve lost you, haven’t I,” buzzes in Castiel’s ear. Oh. His cellphone. He’s still holding it up.

Castiel wasn’t listening to his phone at all. So he goes for honesty. “Yes. I wasn’t listening to you, Sam.”

Sam laughs, not offended. “Yeah, okay. Fair. Later, buddy.”

He doesn’t wait for Castiel to hang up. Castiel appreciates this. Especially since he’s already started to put his phone down.

Dean’s better in person—Castiel thinks this with a strange, possessive smugness. But Castiel only gets to see that once a week, at neatly prescribed, scheduled intervals. That’s the way it will be until the virus doesn’t have them all by the throat anymore. Drinking in the sight of his soulmate now is such an unexpected indulgence.

He can tell Dean’s a little nervous. Maybe someone else wouldn’t be able to see the way he holds his shoulders a little too high, and his Adam’s apple bobs.

But he looks so _good_. The light kisses his high cheekbones where they rise over the red elastic of his quarantine mask, the little winged cherry pie slices bobbing ridiculously as he talks about separating hundreds of eggs with nearly obscene little cupping motions of his hands, and has the interviewer snickering. Castiel’s heard the story, but he chuckles, too, in support.

The blue flannel with narrow gold stripes is one that Castiel doesn’t think he’s seen before, but he’s seen the black apron with “I Ate All The Pies: Dangerously Delicious” on it in bright red lettering—it’s one of Dean’s favorites. Castiel’s soulmate has a hip pressed against the counter in a way that strains the flannel, very attractively, over his shoulders. No-one would ever know that that’s what Dean does to take the pressure off his bad knee.

Castiel leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and smiles, and smiles, and smiles.

“I love your mask, by the way,” the interviewer notes with bright-eyed admiration, gesturing at Dean’s face. “That’s amazing!”

This time, Castiel blinks.

“Oh, _yeah_! Yeah, it’s freakin’ awesome, isn’t it?” Even with his mouth covered, Dean’s smile fills his whole face, pushing at the corners of his eyes, bunching at his cheekbones. The show caught him in sunlight, in _midafternoon_ , and Castiel is, briefly, so envious. The only times he ever got to see Dean in the sun were last summer, when the sun set so late in the evening that the last few rays of it would slant through Dangerously Delicious’s large, open-framed windows. He’s never seen him lit up like this, with fingers of light going through his hair and catching speckles of golden joy in his green eyes.

He’s going to get to see it someday.

The idea makes Castiel briefly, delightedly, dizzy.

“Did you make it yourself?” May Gallardo asks.

It’s a perfectly reasonable question. Though the sewing arts aren’t as popular, in general, as quarantine has gone on—and on, _and on_ —people have been picking them back up.

Dean throws his head back and laughs. The bared line of his neck is intoxicating—Castiel stares, greedier than he should be, at the way Dean's throat is framed. Here, alone at home, there’s no one to judge him for it. (Not even the succulents.)

“Oh, no way!” Dean chortles. “No. Fabric craft ain’t my thing unless you need me to hem pants, or something. No. My, uh… my…”

And he hesitates.

The words stop.

Dean trails off and looks away.

And there it is. There’s the end of Castiel’s insane, lovely dream.

Castiel’s still smiling at the TV, he realizes, but it’s frozen, now—rictus.

It’s time to wake up, again.

Castiel had no idea how that would make him feel. How Dean’s little hesitation strikes him between the ribs, so hard he can’t even gasp: how everything is unreal again, for a moment, dizzy and empty in a way he hasn’t been in longer than he likes to think. It’s only been a few weeks: how dare he get so attached to the idea?

But before, he hadn’t let himself be filled with joy. He hadn’t _hoped_.

Castiel has never been punched or slapped, but perhaps this is what it feels like—like something has spun him around, and he doesn’t know how to stand up again. He doesn’t know which way is up. He can’t look away from the TV.

“Dean?” the interviewer prompts him, looking puzzled.

Dean slips back into motion, slowly. He ducks his chin and rubs the back of his head, the motion of it the sheepishness of a dozen nights in a soft, dark bakery when Dean’s said something silly, done something ridiculous. Castiel remembers the way Dean can laugh at himself, even crouching to mop up an embarrassingly huge coffee spill, because, as he says, _“I look damned good doin’ it.”_

“I, uh, sorry. It’s…” Dean pushes the sleeves of his flannel up his wrists, deliberately, one at a time. Castiel holds his breath like he’s watching Dean disrobe—which, he supposes, in a way he is. Dean stretches out his arms and flips his hands back and forth, like he’s showing off the beautiful dark red stripes on his wrists, the way they contrast sharply against his firm forearms, for the interviewer.

Then Dean looks up at May and smiles, his eyes nearly disappearing with how wide it is.

“I got the world’s best damned soulmate, y’know?” Dean announces, and he stands tall. So cocky, but _proud_. “ _He_ made it for me, he’s amazing, and I’m a lucky sonofa—” he stalls, wrinkling his nose apologetically, the little creases of it tucking over the metal nose-bridge that Castiel carefully fashioned in that mask. “Uh, yeah. I’m lucky. I’m _so_ lucky. So I get a little emotional about it. Sorry.” He shrugs. “But you know how it is.”

Dean sounds embarrassed. But… matter-of-fact.

He actually doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.

‘You know how it is.’ Like him being proud of Castiel—choked up about _Castiel_ —is something other than a miracle.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Oh.

The interviewer’s knees visibly go weak under her—she steadies herself on the edge of a counter—but Castiel can’t exactly blame her for that. He wouldn’t try to stand, right now. “Oh,” she murmurs. She gestures at the camera. “Is there something you want to say to him?”

Dean laughs, and when he looks back at the camera, the absurdly bright colors of the mask he’s wearing, the little cherry pie slices swimming through a background of puffy white clouds and impossibly blue sky, only make his green eyes brighter. It wasn’t really Castiel’s intention when he’d made it—yes, that is somewhat ironic, all things considered. But Dean’s looks need no embellishment at all.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean says, and waves two fingers—a tiny, dorky little thing, too awkward for such a beautiful man. Then he laughs and blows a loud, smacking kiss. “Until I can give you the real thing, anyway.”

Right through his mask.

In front of the cameras, the interviewer. In front of everyone watching this tiny little segment of local news. No-one knows Castiel’s name, because he doesn’t matter, he’s _nobody—_ but it’s there on Dean’s lips anyway, in his smile—possession and forever and choice written on both of Dean’s wrists.

Dean is his, because Dean chose to be. Dean is _his_.

As Castiel watches Dean—watches his best friend, watches _his_ throat-catchingly gorgeous soulmate—make a fool of himself on local news, Dean blushing this incredibly fetching pink as the interviewer turns back to him and they start talking about pain au chocolat, Castiel realizes.

This isn’t what it’s like to be soulmates. This isn’t what it’s like to wear soulbond stripes, to Offer, to Accept. This isn’t Union, and, maybe, it isn’t even choice.

This, Castiel realizes, is what it’s like to be in love.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> It was a toss-up today between a time stamp for Stripes and Stitches and a time stamp for South Side. But with the prompt being "Mask," how could I resist?


End file.
